


The Prayer of the Afflicted

by ClockworkCourier



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-08 23:24:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19877800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: Thomas Hartnell joins theTerrorin the long shadow of his own grief. Thomas Jopson works to escape his own.





	The Prayer of the Afflicted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hungry_hobbits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungry_hobbits/gifts).



> welcome to rarepairtown, population hartnell and jopson. :D and thank you to cillian who suggested the pairing in the first place. i needed more hartnell content in my life (to the surprise of no one) and if i have to be the master of my own destiny, then so be it.
> 
> first up: exposition conga

_Hear my prayer, O LORD, and let my cry come unto thee._

_Hide not thy face from me in the day when I am in trouble;_

_incline thine ear unto me:_

_in the day when I call answer me speedily._

Psalm 102: 1-2

* * *

It’s a quarter after four in the afternoon when Sir John, Commander Fitzjames, and Lieutenant Gore arrive on _Terror._ Jopson marks it by tapping the face of his pocket watch with his thumb and casting a glance up at the illuminator above his head, as dark as coal from the endless Arctic night. Captain Crozier has already informed him that they require nothing special, as it’s meant to be a short visit over tea and some biscuits. The tea set and the napkins have already been set out, and now it’s just a matter of getting everyone in their proper place until the captain decides he’s had enough of the _Erebus_ command’s presence.

Lieutenants Little and Irving are at the ready to greet the men, appropriately knuckling their foreheads and offering all the proper pleasantries. Irving seems particularly pleased at their presence, eagerly asking after their walk between the ships.

“Brisk!” Sir John says with a laugh, knocking some of the loose powder off his hat. “Very brisk, Lieutenant.”

“And short, fortunately,” adds Fitzjames with the grin that Crozier’s already admitted to despising. “Not much to entertain on the subject of scenery.”

It’s all idle chatter from there as Jopson takes coats and the party heads towards the cabin. Lieutenant Hodgson is already inside, making some excuse about avoiding the cold. As Jopson tucks the coats away, he hears all the usual exclamations as though none of the men have seen each other in months. It’s only been a week since Crozier visited _Erebus_ for a meeting (and one that was preceded by the longest single gulp of whiskey that Jopson had ever noted), and less than that since a letter of correspondence was exchanged across the little strait between the ships. Beechey Island has forced some close quarters, but Crozier has attempted to make it a yawning distance. In vain, it seems.

“You’re looking quite robust, Francis!” Sir John is saying as Jopson enters the room to take his place. He’s already seated himself near the head of the table, teacup in his hand. His disposition is _painfully_ friendly. “Those Goldner tins simply are a marvel of the age, are they not?”

Fitzjames takes his seat and adds, “Finest dining at this latitude, I’m sure.”

Jopson, of course, notices the sour look already threatening Crozier’s expression, which is currently a finely-crafted mask of pleasant regard. His smile is short-lived and casted downward as he occupies his fingers with the crumbling edge of a biscuit. “Certainly,” he says.

“Lieutenant Gore and I were just discussing our exploratory predecessors,” Fitzjames goes on, nodding to the lieutenant in question who smiles and ducks his head down to sip his tea. “Frobisher and the like. What do you suppose those poor fellows subsisted on? Gruel, perhaps.”

Sir John gives him a knowing look. “Far worse than our dinners by leagues. They would think us kings in comparison.”

It’s all perfectly pleasant, like they’ve rehearsed this with the exactitude of a Christmas pantomime. A smile, a look of smug pleasure at their ideal lot, and flitting comments dashing about like moths around a lantern. By the time Fitzjames starts to go into the wide selection of music on _Erebus’_ organ, Crozier sighs and taps the rim of his teacup with his thumb, minding the metallic edging. “Gentlemen,” he says. “I’m sorry to interrupt the conversation—pleasant as it was, Fitzjames—but I believe we have a topic that needs discussion.”

Fitzjames’ jaw snaps shut, and he gives Crozier a bewildered look. Then, he shrugs with one shoulder and offers a shallow nod in acquiescence. “Of course, of course. It’s only that we’ve seen shades of you, Captain Crozier. I was eager to make up the dearth of your presence.”

Crozier gives him a tight smile as he dips a crescent of biscuit into his tea. “Of course,” he repeats.

Sir John either doesn’t notice the stiff exchange or elects to ignore it. He casts a warm smile to everyone at the table instead, like a lighthouse glowing in its rotation. “Indeed, we do have a cause for the meeting, as I spoke of in our last correspondence. An opportunity, as it were, to share in the brotherhood of our two ships and display it to the men. You read it all, Francis?”

“I did.”

“I think it’s just the remedy to a rather gloomy winter,” Sir John finishes, folding his hands in front of him with the satisfaction of a successful entrepreneur.

Jopson, for once in a _very_ long time, has no idea what they’re alluding to. He’s only glanced at the correspondence on Crozier’s desk, and often just long enough to discern what was important enough to remove from the way of potential water stains. Crozier hasn’t spoken of the meeting much except to say that it was happening.

Fortunately, Jopson isn’t alone in this regard. Little shifts in his seat, glancing between the two captains in bemusement. “My apologies, sirs. I’ve only heard that there was a request for transfer for one of the men. Is there more to it than that?”

Lieutenant Gore clears his throat, drawing attention. He’s still smiling, but there’s something hollow to it, like he’s displaying it only for the benefit of the men around him. “Indeed, Edward. I… don’t suppose you’ve caught much word of any situation on _Erebus_ from last month?”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“It’s not especially dire,” Gore goes on. The pinches at the corners of his eyes suggest otherwise. “Our winter has been a bit star-crossed, I’m afraid. We’ve another sick man on _Erebus_ now that leads us to believe that perhaps we’re not entirely free of its hold yet.”

“But our morale is fair,” Sir John eagerly adds.

Gore nods, again seemingly only for the captain. “It is, yes. The men have a good outlook and great hope for the coming summer. Only, not _all_ of the men.”

Silence falls like a curtain. Jopson looks between the faces of the men he can see, and at the backs of the heads of others. From what he gathers, they all know what Gore is talking of, but seem uncomfortable about the subject. No one immediately replies, although there is a great eager rush toward halves of biscuits and dredges of tea.

Naturally, it’s Crozier who carries on. “Thomas Hartnell,” he says. The name echoes about the room like a shout.

“The poor boy’s been through an ordeal since November,” Sir John replies. “We’ve simply been led to believe that the… conclusion to it has had greater effect on him than anyone had predicted.”

“In what way?” Crozier asks.

“A complete downturn of his mood,” Gore replies. “He’s not himself, sir.”

Crozier’s eyebrows raise. “You’re well-acquainted with the man?”

“Yes, sir. He and I served on the _Volage_ for three years together. I confess that in that time, I found him to be a better conversation partner than some of my own fellow officers. He was exceptionally pleasant and was still the same when we began this voyage.” Gore pauses, looking down at his teacup with intensified interest. “He’s a different man now, sir. At the…” He trails off, smile evaporating like mist in the sun.

“Examination?” Fitzjames supplies.

Gore nods, terse. “That was a Hartnell I had never met.”

Sir John seems eager to steer the conversation in a less miserable direction, although Jopson notes that the atmosphere in the cabin is the sort that darkens all corners and lowers the power of the lanterns. “It’s not unheard of,” Sir John adds. “Men lose mates all the time. The mourning period passes and what follows prior is often unpleasant, certainly.”

There’s a bitter rise to Crozier’s expression. “Men lose mates, yes. Men do not always lose their brothers.”

“To put it plainly,” Fitzjames cuts in, sensing the mood with far more accuracy than his captain. “If ill, Hartnell will not enter the sick bay or allow any examination. If exhausted, he will not sleep. Lieutenant Gore suggested he ask Doctor Stanley for something to aid with sleep, and he refused _very_ frankly. He seems…” Fitzjames physically gestures at the air like he means to pick the words from it. Finally, he settles on, “Lost in his own head, I suppose.”

Crozier turns his attention to Gore with interest. “You say this is a marked departure from his regular conduct?”

“Enormously.”

“And you’ve spoken to him about this?”

Gore clears his throat again. “In a way, yes. After the events of the examination—”

It’s Irving who cuts in. “Apologies, but what events? I’ve only heard that the conclusion was not scurvy, and we had no cause for worry of it affecting our men.”

“There was a disturbance that followed,” Gore replies. “It may have been that the younger Hartnell… Ah, he may have walked into the room during the procedure.”

“He wasn’t told it was to happen?” Hodgson asks.

“No one outside of command was informed.”

Again, Sir John makes an attempt at steering the conversation. He offers another smile, turning up his palms as though physically offering an explanation. “It wasn’t seen as prudent to draw more attention than necessary. Doctor Stanley assured me that it wouldn’t take more than a half an hour from beginning to conclusion, and the man would be buried in the morning no worse for the wear. We simply needed to ascertain the cause and no more.”

“Of course, you mean to keep a secret and the whole crew knows,” Crozier guesses, mirroring Sir John’s palms-up gesture. “Including the brother of the man that you ordered cut open.”

It’s the plainest sort of speech that Crozier can give, and it has exactly the effect that he’s sure to intend; the _Terror_ lieutenants all but wince, Gore stares hard at his teacup, Sir John’s smile tightens, and Fitzjames has the decorum to nod politely and maintain eye contact. Jopson is almost outwardly proud but keeps himself dutifully in check.

“An unfortunate oversight,” Sir John replies.

“Indeed. As for the disturbance?”

“He was predictably angry,” Gore answers, his words strained and unbalanced like they mean to topple off his lips. “I had to restrain him.”

Crozier gives him a level look—at once curious and unamused. “So you mean to transfer a disruptive sailor onto my ship,” he says.

“No, oh Lord, _no,_ ” Sir John replies quickly. “Mister Hartnell is a credit to his profession, to be sure. And I am not without my mercies on the subject of grief. Heaven knows we’ve all experienced its weight at one time or another. Fitzjames and I mutually agreed that the lad wasn’t to be punished with severity for his reaction. It was… Well, it was _understandable._ ”

“He really wasn’t acting like himself,” Gore adds. From his expression, slightly pinched and pale, Jopson wonders how deep his regard for the man in question is. It’s an oddity in of itself that a lieutenant befriended a man so low in rank so openly, but stranger things have certainly happened.

Sir John nods in agreement, his glowing smile returning. “As I said, Francis, it’s a show of brotherhood more than anything! And Peddie and McDonald will certainly see after his medical needs with no trouble, I believe.”

Hodgson interjects, “Is he ill, sirs?”

“Tired, I think,” Sir John replies. He seems exceptionally fatherly in that moment, although through the lens of Crozier that Jopson has been provided, he wonders at his honesty. Still, he speaks like a man talking about a particularly tiresome child, prone to staying awake through the night and causing minor havocs. “Mister Goodsir wondered if he had slept a full night since November. I have faith that your good doctors on this ship will find a way to lull him properly.”

Jopson believes the unsaid sentence here is something akin to, ‘ _Because they were not the ones who cut his brother open, and so he might trust them better._ ’ If he knows Crozier at all, and the lieutenants to a degree, then they’re probably of the same mind.

Crozier is silent for a long while, and none of the lieutenants of either ship seem eager to speak in the lull. Irving makes a few false starts of speech but curbs it by silencing himself with one of the remaining biscuits on the platter. Then, he silently signals for Jopson to fetch more. With a short nod, Jopson smiles and gathers the platter. “Only a moment, sirs,” he says, and when he speaks, a few men flinch as though they were not aware he was there.

He’s hesitant to leave the room to head to the pantry, wondering what Crozier will say in the interim. It’s not an especially large request to be made of them, especially after the _Terror_ ejected four men at the Whalefish Islands, one of which was an AB as Hartnell is. They have the space and the resources, which in a normal circumstance, might make Crozier’s answer predictable. However, what Franklin asks of him is to take on a man shaken by death and gripped by grief, and with few of _Terror’_ s crew knowing his personality, the final result is unpredictable. They may be asking Crozier to take on a madman, for all any of them know. Perhaps that’s the reason for the captain’s silence on the subject—he may very well have been mulling it over.

Jopson hurries with opening a tin of biscuits and arranging them smartly on the platter, although any attempt at aesthetic presentation will probably be overlooked. He feels almost boyish, quickly returning to Crozier’s cabin and hoping that he hasn’t missed anything important in the conversation. Still, he maintains decorum with a quick knock and an announcement of his presence before he enters. Good habits and all.

Only a few men glance at him upon his return, but Jopson takes stock of Little’s expression first—thoughtful, perhaps even a bit perplexed. His brow is raised, and he works his jaw like he’s forming words in the grooves of his teeth. He looks to Hodgson, then Irving, and finally the platter of biscuits. It’s a welcome distraction, clearly.

Sir John, however, looks pleased, which means that Crozier must have agreed to the suggestion.

That leaves the captain in question. His expression is unreadable, but heavy in all respects. He taps a knuckle on the table. “Let me make myself clear, gentlemen,” he starts. “Before he arrives on this ship, I want it to be known that I expect as much discipline and respect from him as I expect from any of my men. I’ll give him the adjustment period and allow Lieutenant Irving to see after his spiritual needs as they arise.”

Irving looks proud. Naturally. “Of course, sir.”

“Good. Now, Mister Hartnell is an AB, and as soon as the adjustment period is over, he will attend to all assignments and chores with the same level of expectation as the others. Make sure that is _transparent_ to him.”

Sir John spreads his hands again as if to receive Crozier’s words. “I would expect nothing less! He’ll arrive on the morrow, papers in hand. Perhaps he’ll be a sign of happier times to come and we can clear some of the sorry shades of this winter.”

Crozier says nothing. His thoughts are becoming more opaque with each passing moment. By the time the lieutenants are standing and shaking hands with Sir John, Fitzjames, and Gore, Jopson could sooner coax water from stone than glean a single thought from his captain. It’s only through proper training that he stands and exchanges the expected pleasantries. His mind, however, is obviously somewhere else.

The _Erebus_ officers file out with Little attending them. Irving and Hodgson linger a moment, expecting a further word. After a silent moment, Crozier notices them and nods with an absent-minded expression. “We’ll reconvene in the morning,” he says. “Just for clarity’s sake. You’re dismissed.”

They give their respective, “Sir,” and a salute before following after Little.

It’s just Crozier and Jopson left.

“Sir,” Jopson starts, gathering up the platter once more. “Is there anything I can fetch for you?”

Crozier sits with his forehead resting on his upraised hand, knuckles at his brows. Slowly, he shakes his head. “No, not until dinner.”

“Of course. I’ll clear this up, then.”

He works around the captain, stacking saucers and cups and folding napkins. All the while, Crozier sits in morose silence.

“Jopson,” he says, more to his fist than Thomas.

“Yes, sir?”

A pause follows, as the captain seems to weigh his next words. Finally, he settles on, “See to it that Mister Hartnell has a place for his hammock and notify Peddie and McDonald that they’re to expect a new patient.”

“Very good, sir. Is there anything in particular that I should tell them?”

“He’s to have a full physical prior to any treatments. Other than that, they can do as they wish.”

Jopson nods as he hangs the napkins over one arm and begins the careful balancing act of a stack of delicate saucers. “I’ll do that as soon as I’m able, sir.”

The captain goes silent again as Jopson leaves, sliding the door shut with his foot. Only when it’s completely closed does he hear a faint mumble that sounds like, “God, I hope I haven’t made a mistake.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://radiojamming.tumblr.com)


End file.
